


A Prudent Match

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Clint/Coulson Holiday Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scandal of his brother's death has left the newly titled Lord Barton with precarious social standing. His particular friend, Lady Fury, has the solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prudent Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paraka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraka/gifts).



> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's characters, not mine. I'm simply playing with them.
> 
> For Paraka, who likes Harlequin tropes like historical AUs and arranged marriages. Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you to my fabulous beta readers, and all of my friends who cheered me on!

 

The shop door opened just as Clint approached it, leading him to dodge out of the way of the emerging patron, who was settling his hat onto his head, and had not seen him.

The man who stepped out was resplendent in his uniform, scarlet coat vibrant, buttons gleaming, his gloved hand firmly gripping the silver head of an ebony cane. Clint was not overly familiar with the rank insignia of His Majesty's officers, but this gentleman appeared to have quite a lot of gold braid adorning his coat.

The man's blue eyes widened in surprise at the near collision.

"I beg your pardon," he said genially, and the corner of his mouth lifted in an apologetic smile. Good humor softened his voice and the corners of his eyes, instantly making him appear younger than his years.

Clint's mouth was suddenly dry, and he required a moment to regain his composure before speaking.

"No, indeed, sir. My fault entirely," he replied, stepping further aside to let the man pass.

The man paused, however, on the shop's threshold. His gaze was sharp, and yet, still kind, as he studied Clint, who lowered his eyes at the man's steady regard. Unlike this finely-attired officer, whose masterfully-tailored uniform showed off his well-muscled figure to his best advantage, Clint was dressed in his late brother Barney's clothes, hastily-tailored and ill-fitting.

He glanced up once more, prepared for the censure he anticipated in the officer's eyes, and he blinked in surprise to see nothing but simple admiration there.

Someone jostled the man from behind, a vexed voice muttering, "I say!" at the impediment.

The officer blinked, and the moment was broken.

"Good day," he murmured, nodding amiably at Clint before moving off. His gait was nearly even, though he gripped the cane tightly as he strode down the street, adeptly avoiding the worst of the muck.

The stout matron who emerged in the officer's wake harrumphed, disdain on her face as she glanced at Clint, no doubt considering him a loitering ruffian.

Part of Clint wished to protest that he was an earl now, and he deserved respect, but he had spent far too long hiding in the shadows and attempting to remain unnoticed to put himself forward in that way. He lowered his eyes as she passed, watching the progress of the handsome officer, instead.

Clint wondered how he had been injured. It had surely happened in battle, whilst the man did something dashing and heroic.

The shop door opened again before he could become too lost in his musings, and a group of tittering young girls stepped out, accompanied by a frowning governess. Shaken out of his reverie, Clint nodded politely at them, smiling charmingly at their governess, who colored prettily and quickened her step, herding her charges along. Clint stepped into the bookshop at last, belatedly remembering his purpose in traveling this way at all.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

The handsome officer lingered in Clint's memory over the following days, as Clint found himself dwelling on the warm regard in the the man's fine blue eyes.

Far more used to looks of anger, disdain, and censure, especially from such a fine personage, Clint could not seem to forget that spark of interest. Even now, as he danced and struggled to make polite conversation at Lord Blake's ball, he could not put the man out of his mind.

"Are you well, my lord?" Lady Fury asked coolly, one burnished copper eyebrow raised in mild admonition.

"Yes, of course I am, sorry, Nat," he said hastily, pulled out of his thoughts. He realized his mistake as her eyebrow climbed higher. "That is, I do apologize, my lady. I was distracted."

The dance brought them together, and she murmured in his ear, "A gentleman never admits that his attention has been drawn away from the lady or gentleman with whom he is dancing."

Concentrating on the still unfamiliar steps, Clint merely nodded. Tripping over his feet was unfortunately just as likely as tripping over his tongue.

The dance brought them together again, and Lady Fury continued. "You must maintain your polite interest even when the ballroom is populated with nothing but simpering flirts and mercenary chits, as it appears to be this evening."

The arch observation startled a laugh out of Clint. "Ah, but my lady," he countered out of the corner of his mouth as they walked up the set, "Surely your company and conversation are ample reward for any difficulties undertaken this evening."

"Very prettily said, sir," she replied with a wry smile. "Well done."

Clint held her gaze a moment too long, a pleased smile curving his lips, and it was only when her eyes widened that he realized he was in danger of forgetting his steps.

He turned hurriedly, attempting to correct himself, and caught a glimpse of a familiar face and a scarlet coat, and a silver-headed ebony cane gleaming in the light of the ballroom. The steps of the dance carried him on before he could discern any more.

The urge to turn back was nearly overpowering, but doing so would send the entire set into disarray, and Clint knew his presence here was merely being tolerated as it was. Accordingly, he gritted his teeth in a smile that felt like a grimace, nodding amiably as the figures spun him toward Mr Hunter. By the time he looked back across the ballroom, his officer was gone.

After the set, he led Natasha to the company of Lady Hartley and Lady Hand.

"Good evening, ladies," he replied, making sure to bow exactly as low as Natasha had taught him.

"Lord Barton," they chorused. Their matched study of him was frightening, but both nodded approvingly in the end. Knees weak, Clint resisted the urge to sigh with relief.

"Allow me to bring you ladies some refreshment," he offered when he was sure his voice would not tremble, and when Natasha smiled and they both nodded, he rapidly made his escape. He scoured the ballroom as he moved toward the punch bowl, but he did not see his handsome officer anywhere. Had Clint imagined him, perhaps?

In this heat and this crush, it was certainly a possibility. Resigned, he returned to the ladies laden with cups, determined to enjoy the remainder of the evening.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Walking along the path, Clint took a bracing breath. The air was cold, but clear, and Clint smiled to himself. It was the first clear morning they'd had since he had come to town, and he was taking advantage of the fine weather. The park was nearly deserted, as it was still early, and the condition of the paths was dreadful after the long stretch of bad weather.

Clint’s time in town had been an endless whirlwind of balls and parties and calls and visits, and he required some time alone. The trappings of society had not figured heavily in his life until now, and to have it all thrust upon him so quickly was quite disorientating.

He glanced down at the black armband that encircled the sleeve of his newly obtained coat. His brother's unanticipated death three months before had been a shock, but perhaps the bigger shock had been the realization that his brother's title and the entirety of his estate now fell to Clint.

"I am sure you have progeny somewhere, Barney," he sighed, "But none that can be called heir."

Clint had not been brought up for this life, and he knew his education and comportment were sadly lacking -- the fault of his angry and distant father, who took no interest in his second son beyond boxing his ears or worse, if he stood too near. 

With the scandal of the duel, and his brother's death at the hands of the wrathful marquess he had cuckolded, and Clint's occasionally clownish attempts at behaving properly in society, his family's reputation -- never the finest -- stood on the brink of disaster. Clint was determined to restore it, and to be a better Lord Barton than either his brother or his father had ever been.

"But how to do that?" he mused, tapping his walking stick on the muddy path. Natasha had some idea, it was to be hoped, as she had requested his presence this morning.

Briefly closing his eyes, Clint thanked Providence for her friendship. He had spent his childhood among the children of servants and villagers, and as the daughter of a local baron who was regularly away with his wife, Natasha had often slipped free of her inattentive governess to roam the hills and woods. She had been Clint's particular friend since he had been old enough to traverse the distance between Barton Manor and the Romanov home alone.

Miss Romanov had grown into an exceedingly pretty young lady, and her beauty and poise were enough to soften society's misgivings regarding her unconventional upbringing. Her marriage to Lord Fury had given her the final polish, and she was using every connection and contact she had made to move Clint forward in society as well.

He owed her everything.

At the sound of distant hoofbeats, Clint opened his eyes, peering across the park. Several men were taking advantage of the light traffic in the park to take their morning exercise, and Clint watched them admiringly for a moment. Now that he had received the last of his new wardrobe from his tailors, a mount of his own was to be his next purchase, though he knew his skill could not yet hope to match that of the men riding this morning.

One of them turned adroitly, cantering in his direction with a smile upon his countenance, and Clint's breath caught in his throat.

It was him! The officer he'd encountered at the bookshop, and had thought he'd seen at the ball! He wore no uniform now, instead attired in a beautiful peacock blue jacket and fawn breeches under a finely tailored grey coat, boots and tack gleaming against the chestnut coat of his horse.

Clint had never been so grateful for his unequaled eyesight, which allowed him to discern details no one else could at this distance.

The man continued to draw near, and the horse's stride faltered suddenly, juddering to a halt. Clint watched as the man raised an uncertain hand, tipping his hat in acknowledgment. Clint felt his cheeks warm at the sign of recognition, and he tipped his own hat in reply, bowing slightly.

The horse started forward again, but its rider turned in the saddle at a shout from one of his companions. When the shout came again, he turned back toward Clint, and there was resignation on his face. 

With another tip of his hat, the man turned again, riding toward his companions, and Clint stepped forward instinctually.

"Wait," he murmured, but the horseman and his friends had gone, and short of running through the park after the man and looking like a madman, there was nothing to be done.

But his repeated brushes with the man had to mean something, did they not?

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

"I have found you a husband," Natasha said without preamble, and Clint choked on his tea.

Sipping her own tea, she watched serenely as he gasped and sputtered, fumbling the delicate china onto the table to avoid spilling or dropping it.

"What? That is, I beg your pardon?" he asked once had some semblance of breath back.

"I believe it is time for you to be married, my lord. A good husband is the best way to restore dignity to your family name. And I have the perfect candidate."

"Marriage?" Clint repeated dully. His cravat was tied far too tightly, and he reached up to loosen it, stopping himself when Natasha aimed one unimpressed eyebrow at him. He folded his hands uneasily in his lap.

"Indeed. You have a title and an estate, and a family reputation that needs restoring. Colonel Coulson has an excellent family reputation and as an officer, he has been encouraged to marry. In addition, he will be in need of a home and an income when his military career comes to a close. You are a good match. You are both second sons of an earl, which gives you a common bond, though of course you have now inherited, and he has not."

Clint stared at her. "But… Natasha… I cannot marry him! I do not even know him!"

"That will not stand in the way of a successful marriage," she said with a small smile, and he knew she was thinking of Lord Fury, whom she had first met days before their wedding. Clint, however, had far less charitable thoughts regarding arranged marriages. He had spent much of his childhood hiding in dark corners and empty rooms and under furniture to avoid the disastrous consequences of his parents' marriage.

His misgivings must have shown on his face, for Natasha's face softened.

"Clint. Do you not trust me? He is a good man, one of Lord Fury's closest friends. I would not pair you with a brute or a drunkard."

"Of course I trust you. It is just that… I had never considered marriage as the solution to my difficulties."

"I know you had not. That is why you have me."

"I… forgive me, but I would like to choose my own husband." Thoughts of the man he had seen in the bookshop and on horseback came flooding back, and Clint felt his cheeks color.

"I know that is so, but your circumstances have changed, Clint. I believe that this is the best recourse. Your family's standing needs assistance, but you are a titled, eligible bachelor, and a whiff of scandal will not keep the fortune hunters away for long. Soon, they will begin circling, and I will not always be there to help you fight them off."

Clint frowned at her, picking up his tea once more. "Do you not think that I can discern when someone has an interest only in my purse?" he asked quietly, staring into the now tepid beverage.

She did not answer directly, and Clint glanced up to find her studying him with a great deal of fondness in her expression.

"I think that you have seen so little kindness in your life that you are likely to believe that the first person who smiles at you does so with nothing but the deepest affection."

Clint wished to be angry at her interpretation of his character, but he was forced to agree that she was correct. He had few acquaintances, and even fewer friends, and he had often been deceived by those he had believed had cared for him.

"But marriage," he murmured. "It is such a precipitate step."

"And I believe a necessary one."

"A colonel? He will be so old."

Natasha sighed. "Not so old. He is handsome. And kind. He will be good to you."

"But a marriage based on so little? What of love?"

"Love is a child's game," she said brusquely. "You are not a child playing in the stables of Barton Manor anymore, Clint. You must think of your legacy."

"I have done nothing but think of my legacy since my brother's death," he said angrily. "Believe me, I spend far more time thinking about it than my father or my brother ever did!"

"Forgive me," she said, setting her teacup down to press a hand to his arm. "I spoke hastily. I know that is the case, but you cannot gamble your future on dreams, Clint. Colonel Coulson is a good man, and so are you. Kindness and integrity are a good foundation for marriage, and in time, affection will grow. I know it is so."

Clint sighed. "I cannot decide in an instant, Natasha. I need time."

She pressed his arm once more, and though her eyes were kind in the way they only ever were when she spoke to him, her voice was firm with conviction. "Colonel Coulson is a good man, and the best match you could hope to make, Clint. He is a fine catch, and he will not remain unmarried for long. You cannot dither on this."

"A night or two, that is all I ask."

"That is all you can afford. It would be best for both of you if the banns are first read by Twelfth Night."

"So soon!"

"Once a resolution has been made, there is no wisdom in a delay in matters such as this," she advised.

As unsettled as he was by the conversation, Clint knew that Natasha was only acting in his best interest, out of nothing but sincere friendship and affection.

"I know I must seem ungrateful, and that is the farthest thing from the truth," he said stiffly. "I heartily appreciate your efforts on my behalf. In everything, Natasha."

She merely smiled and poured them both another cup of tea.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

True to his request, Clint did nothing but think of Natasha's words over the next day and night. He had previously made plans to attend the opera with some friends, but he found he could not concentrate on the beauty of the production. He merely frowned at the stage, lost in his own thoughts.

Could he be happy in a marriage built on necessity and convenience?

He trusted Natasha, far more than he trusted anyone else in his life, and he knew she would not knowingly allow him to come to harm. Lord Fury was a good man -- if occasionally forbidding in countenance and manner -- and he was good to Natasha. Clint had no doubt that they cared for each other; he had seen the affection that passed between them in private moments.

They would not recommend a match with someone unsuitable, nor even with someone they believed to be unsuited to Clint. But he had never anticipated that he might be involved in such mercenary business. He already bore the scars that resulted from a bad marriage, and he wanted no part of that again.

He realized abruptly that the act had ended, and the murmur of conversation now filled the house.

"Are you quite well, Barton?" Baron Mackenzie asked him, and Clint shook himself out of his reverie and glanced beyond Mackenzie to where Lord Triplett was conversing with Miss Bishop and Viscount Wilson. "You seem quite distracted this evening."

"I am well, thank you," he replied. "I simply have much to think on." 

Mackenzie nodded, turning to enquire if Lady Morse required refreshment, leaving Clint to his thoughts once more.

He stared into the crush of patrons beyond his box, his thoughts tumbling about, and he blinked when a familiar face resolved itself out of the crowd.

The man he'd seen in the bookshop and the park sat in a box across the way, engaged in conversation with another gentleman. The cut of his dark grey jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and Clint could not stop watching the way he gestured with his hands to accentuate his discourse.

Clint burned with the desire to bolt out of the box and find him. Surely their repeated encounters meant they were to be acquainted, and perhaps more.

He stilled himself with effort. It would be foolish to do what he wished. The interval between acts was nearly over, and there would be a crush of people returning to their seats. And what was he to do, burst into the man's box -- assuming he could discern which box it was -- and begin a conversation? With no introduction, and without even knowing the man's name? There was enough scandal around his family already.

Clint forced himself to think clearly; he was aware that some of his misgivings with the plan Natasha had set forth had to do with the man he kept seeing. The man had shown interest in and admiration towards Clint, even in his borrowed, ill-fitting clothes, and without knowing about his new, ill-fitting title. Clint longed to believe there was a connection there, something the man had seen in him that went beyond mercenary matters.

He did not know who this man was, beyond an officer. He did not know his name, or his family, or his origins, and it was preposterous to gamble his future on a man with a good figure and fine eyes, who had shown an instant of admiration for him. It was even more simpleminded than believing that the first teasing fop who smiled at him in a ballroom did so with love in his heart.

He could not afford to be so guileless and unworldly.

The second act began, and Clint gave it no more notice than the first. When the final act ended, he parted ways from his friends with the barest of attentions.

When he arrived back in his lodgings, he wrote a note to Lord and Lady Fury, asking them to convey his sincere desire to meet Colonel Coulson, at his earliest convenience.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Colonel Coulson's earliest convenience happened to be Christmas Eve.

Far more nervous than he could ever remember being, Clint rapped on the door of Fury House, breathing in the crisp scents of pine and bay and rosemary wafting from the wreath on the door.

He was shown immediately into the drawing room, the footman loudly announcing, "Lord Barton, ma'am!"

Clint twitched, still unused to the title -- he wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to it.

Natasha was alone, and Clint breathed a sigh of relief for the moment of respite. She looked lovely, and he told her so with a smile, taking the hands she offered and bowing over them. Natasha smiled back at him.

"You look very handsome, Lord Barton," she teased, and when he did not reply, she said, "Do not you worry. He is just as nervous as you are."

Clint shook his head with a small laugh.

"That cannot be the case," he said, mortified to hear his voice tremble. "No one has ever been this nervous."

"Do sit down, please," she ordered, and he sat. He had but a moment to admire the Christmas fire and the garlands of evergreen that adorned the room before the sound of men's voices filled the hall, and he shot to his feet.

Lord Fury was laughing as he entered the room, face turned back to converse with the man who followed him.

Clint gasped quietly, and his knees shook, threatening to pitch him to the floor.

The man who had been haunting him since their first encounter at the bookshop stared back at him, blue eyes wide, face suddenly pale.

"Lord Barton, may I present my very good friend, Colonel Phillip Coulson," Fury said as they stared at each other. "Colonel Coulson, I should like to introduce you to Clinton, Lord Barton."

"Are you two acquainted?" Natasha asked shrewdly as she glanced between them, and Clint blinked.

"No! That is, we have not been introduced before," he said quickly, just as Colonel Coulson said, "Not formally."

Clint cleared his throat and looked into the fireplace, knowing his cheeks were as red as the colonel's.

Silence stretched on for a moment, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

"Well," Fury said briskly. "I believe we'll leave you two to get better acquainted before luncheon. Come, my dear," he said, holding out a hand. With a smile for him -- and a smile for Clint -- Natasha took it.

"All will be well," she whispered as she passed Clint, and then she closed the drawing room door, leaving them completely alone, without even a footman to intervene.

Emotion tumbling within him, Clint raised his gaze to find the colonel staring at him, and he felt his cheeks heat further.

"Good afternoon," Clint murmured, and then could not help but make a face at the awkward words.

The colonel laughed, a quiet, pleasant sound, and Clint found himself hoping he would soon hear it again.

"Good afternoon," he replied, sounding just as awkward. "Ah… will you sit?"

They sat on opposite sides of the settee. Confirmation that the colonel felt just as uncertain helped restore Clint's courage, and he took the opportunity to study the man who was to be his husband.

 _My husband_ , he thought, dazed all over again. He felt his mortified flush return.

Colonel Coulson wore a dark blue coat and fawn breeches, and his cravat was beautifully tied. It was similar to what he had been wearing when Clint had seen him in the park, and he was exceedingly grateful for a closer look. The faint blush of the colonel's embarrassment was quite becoming, and surprisingly alluring.

"You… you look very handsome this evening, Colonel," Clint said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I… I thank you, sir, and I must say that you look very well also, but please. I know that it is far too early for Christian names, but I should hope we could drop the ceremony of titles, at least in private," he replied, and then his eyes widened. "Though of course, we do not have to, and it is entirely at your discretion, my lord. I -- "

"Yes," Clint said quickly. "I would like that. Feel free to call me Barton; I still look for my brother when someone says 'my lord'."

Clint cursed himself for bringing up the difficult matter of his brother during this delicate meeting, but the colonel -- Coulson -- merely smiled.

"I must say, this is an awkward business, is it not?" he asked, and Clint laughed.

"Indeed," he said with relief. "Though I must confess, I find I have far fewer misgivings at this moment than I did yesterday."

Coulson smiled, diffidently dropping his head to regard his boots. Clint found himself charmed by the gesture.

"As do I," Coulson said after a moment.

"Will you… will you be returning to action soon?" Clint asked, his gaze lingering on the ebony cane at Coulson's side.

Coulson saw where his attention had gone. "'Tis a minor injury, nothing to concern you, I assure you. I remain engaged with business in town, and there are no plans at present for me to return to action, though of course, I serve at the pleasure of His Majesty. I do not think, however, that I have many years of action left in me. Battle is for the young," he said with a wry smile.

"But you are not so old," Clint exclaimed, and then felt like throwing himself into the fire. "I beg your pardon," he said hastily, prepared to see his soon-to-be-betrothed's temper. Perhaps it was best to learn now what his future was to hold.

Coulson merely laughed. "I thank you, sir. That is pleasing to know. I do believe you feared your friends were marrying you off to a doddering old fool," he said teasingly.

"No, of course not," Clint protested, but he could not help his answering laugh. He remembered Natasha saying that Coulson was handsome, and kind, and he felt nearly giddy to have her words proven true.

Their laughter trailed off, leaving them studying each other in silence.

"I should be very happy," Coulson said softly, his lips curved in a gentle smile, "To return from action to a home, and a husband."

Clint blinked, surprised by how very appealing the thought was. "I shall be very happy to welcome a husband home," he said.

Coulson's smile grew, and Clint found himself studying his mouth, and the shape of his lips. He wondered if they would be soft against his, if Coulson would kiss him beyond their wedding day, and if so, would it be with simple familiarity, or with ardent passion?

He watched as Coulson's lips parted, his breath catching as the tip of Coulson's tongue briefly emerged, moistening his lips. Indecent thoughts flooded Clint's mind, and he tore his gaze away from the man's mouth.

"I -- " he started, but then he lost his breath again as he caught sight of Coulson's eyes. They were dark, and fixed on Clint's face, filled with what he could only think of as hunger.

Clint found himself leaning in, saw that Coulson leaned in as well, prepared to meet him halfway, and he reached out, Coulson's gloved hands rising to meet his.

Just as their fingers touched, there was a brief knock and then the door swung open. They jumped apart like scalded cats to see Lord Fury in the doorway, a knowing smile on his face.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but I'm afraid it's time to come to table."

Coulson stood, clearing his throat as he straightened his jacket and offered his arm. "Will you allow me to lead you in to lunch, my lord?"

"I should like it very much," Clint said, taking his arm. It was firmly muscled beneath the fine material of his jacket, and Clint felt his cheeks heat yet again. Being around this man made him feel like an untouched youth.

Savoring the sensation of Coulson's arm beneath his fingers, and his warmth at Clint's side, Clint nearly collided with Lord Fury when he stopped in the hall.

"What are you about, Fury?" Coulson asked curiously, but Fury merely looked up with a smile. "Oh," Coulson breathed.

Clint looked up as well. Above them, hanging from the chandelier, was a small sprig of mistletoe, laden with fat berries.

Coulson reached up and plucked one, presenting it to Clint. "May I?" he murmured, his lips so close to Clint's cheek that the warmth of his breath made Clint shiver.

"Of course," Clint whispered. At this distance, he could see flecks of gold and silver in Coulson's remarkable eyes, and his own eyes fluttered closed as Coulson drew near.

His lips were soft against Clint's, gentle but firm, the heat of his body nearly intoxicating. Clint gripped the material of Coulson's jacket, swallowing a moan as he felt the play of muscles beneath the fine fabric. He felt the urge to move closer, to know how it would feel to be encircled in Coulson's -- in _Phillip's_ arms, to feel Phillip's body against his, and he took a step, leaning into the kiss, wanting more.

Phillip stepped back, his hands on Clint's shoulders, his breathing light and quick. Clint blinked his eyes open to find they were alone again. Ducking his head, Phillip brushed his lips against Clint's once more, and then stepped back, biting his lip at Clint's small sound of dismay.

"I daren't kiss you again -- I am afraid I shall not stop," he said.

"I feel the same," Clint replied breathlessly.

"I think…" Phillip said, and then hesitated before forging on. "I think we shall be very happy together."

Clint's heart was still racing, and he could not help but agree. "I think you are correct," he said with a joyous laugh, and Phillip returned his smile as he offered his arm once more.

Clint took it happily, prepared to let Phillip lead him in to lunch, and to wherever the future led them.

**END**


End file.
